


Ounce for Ounce (Tare the Scale)

by Dangereuse



Category: (500) Days of Summer (2009), Warrior (2011)
Genre: And Tom's floppy hair, Armed Robbery, Excuse the Title, Fighting, Fucking, Homophobic Language, I love Tommy's biceps, M/M, My love for puns is an unhealthy thing, PfPverse Inspired, The tiniest smidgeon of unactualized dubcon, They are so cute, TomTom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:12:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1814806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangereuse/pseuds/Dangereuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets from the lovely Sibilant and smugrobotic's Pound for Pound Verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Be Denied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sibilant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/gifts), [smugrobotics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smugrobotics/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Pound for Pound (Not to Scale)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/751405) by [Sibilant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant), [smugrobotics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smugrobotics/pseuds/smugrobotics). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the oldschool idea of orgasm deprivation before a fight-Because it doesn't work! Trololol. Poor Tommy.

When Frank had first mentioned it, it had seemed doable if difficult, something to get Frank off of his back about spending time with Tom rather than training, something to ramp up his aggression and make him even more lethal for the big fight in month. He’s had long stretches without before, and in those few seconds after Frank had been razzing on Tom it didn’t seem that bad.

 

He’d known he was wrong the first night he’d come home to Tom, had Tom press kisses against his neck and reach with one long-fingered hand towards his cock. He’d gripped Tom’s wrist in his hand, had to explain in mumbled words Frank’s idea, had to watch the disappointment in Tom’s eyes. But Tom had been supportive, had patted his knee and smiled his loose little smile and said it would be interesting enough to try as long as they still got to kiss.

 

It’s been two weeks. Two whole weeks without the press of Tom’s hands, the wet heat of his mouth, the slick slide of his hole. Two whole weeks of waking with his cock pressed up in the crack of Tom’s ass, and being unable to rock against it into completion.  Two weeks of watching Tom lick his lips, watching Tom bend over to pick things up. Two weeks of watching Tom button up his collared shirts and wrap skinny ties around narrow throat, of lounging with his collarbones exposed in his pajamas and parading around so swaddled in towels after his shower that only his pink flushed face and his pink flushed toes peek out. Two weeks of wanting Tom so bad he could practically _eat_ him, and two weeks of Tom looking at him exactly the same.

 

Two weeks and he comes home to this. To Tom, sprawled nude and flushed across their shared bed, his cock in hand, his face buried into one of Tommy’s workout shirts. He’s making panting little keening noises, his eyes clenched shut with his long girl-lashes dusky against his cheeks.

 

It’s too much. Tommy’s never felt as predatory as he does when he crawls up into the bed with Tom, as he does when Tom opens his eyes with an ‘oh’, his cheeks flaming impossibly redder.

 

“I didn’t know you’d be home this soon,” Tom says, as if that makes it better, makes the fact that Tom is in their bed, hard and wanting, hand on his cock and jerking off to the thought of _him_ , any better.

 

Tommy doesn’t know what makes him bat Tom’s hand away, makes him grasp Tom’s cock in his hand and jerk him off to the sound of Tom’s noises.

 

Tom tries to push him away, tries to remind him in between his beautiful little pants of ‘his celibacy thing’, but Tommy pins his hands and strips his cock anyway, watching as Tom’s eyes go blown and gone.

 

When Tom’s done, when he’s come on his belly and his limbs are trembling like they do after a really good orgasm, Tommy forces himself out of the room, makes his hands grasp for his gym duffel rather than Tom’s hips, orders his feet into their shoes and out the door rather than slipping into the bed beside Tom.

 

By the time he makes it to the gym, his cock is throbbing mercilessly and his mind is caught up on an endless loop of Tom’s lips parting as he’d come.

 

Frank was right about one thing: Tommy’s never been more aggressive in his life.

 

 

It’s two nights before the fight, and the only thing worse than Tom chittering aimlessly at him and bending over in those ridiculous skinny pants is Tom being gone from the apartment completely. It’s the longest they’ve gone without having sex since Tom invited him up that fateful day to his apartment, let Tommy put his hands under his ridiculous hipster sweaters and shuck his beautiful legs out of his ironic skinny jeans.

 

It burns to touch Tom. To brush his sleeve when he walks past, to kiss him when he leaves in the morning, to tug on his hand when he’s talking too fast.

 

The flop of Tom’s hair over his eyes makes him want to murder something.

 

“So,” Tom says, wriggling his eyebrows. “Two more days. Any plans with what you’ll do to me afterwards?”

 

Tommy goes still, his cock suddenly intent on boring through his sweatpants. He glares at Tom over the kitchen divider, too gone for words.

 

Tom’s eyes go wide like a doe’s, and Tommy forces himself to flop backwards onto the couch and drag his forearm over his eyes.

 

It’s either that or taking Tom over the kitchen counter.

 

 

The night of the fight, Tommy’s entire body feels like a livewire. He can’t stop the relentless fidgeting of his fingers and the entire span of his shoulders feels like it itches. His mouthguard feels weak under the press of his teeth. He can hardly bear for the official to run light fingers over his neck and shoulders, checking for Vaseline. It’s too much for Frank to slap him on the shoulder, to say his usual smattering of unnecessary words.

 

Then his opponent walks out onto the mats. The sound of the cage doors closing behind him is perfectly fitting.

 

Mathelson’s good, which is why it takes Tommy three and a half minutes of steady pounding to pin him to the floor so he can beat the shit out of Mathelson’s head.

 

Tommy knows exactly when Mathelson starts waning, eyes fluttering under the pounding of his fists, but he barely notices when the ref pries him off of Mathelson. It’s all a black and red blur as he’s dragged into the middle of the ring while Mathelson’s entourage runs to him.

 

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Tommy, that was fucking brutal,” Frank says to him, holding him in the corner while they carry Mathelson off the mats, pressing cold metal to one of the glancing blows Mathelson managed to make across Tommy’s eyebrow. Tommy bats him away, edgy and unwilling to be touched. He tones out the drone of the announcers above him. They only have shit to say about him anyway.

 

Tommy goes quietly crazy in the corner, waiting what seems like forever to be escorted back to the center of the ring to have his arm raised. He can’t feel the hands fastening the belt around his waist, can’t hear the roaring crowd over the raging in his ears. He searches for Tom in the crowd, even though he knows Tom is probably already backstage, waiting for him on his bench.

 

Somebody shoves a mic in his face, but Tommy doesn’t speak until Frank jostles him. He mumbles something about Mathelson, and then Frank is leading him out, looking concerned.

 

In the training room, Frank is trying to prompt Tommy to speak and covering Tommy’s silence against the reporters, but Tommy doesn’t care. He’s still got this electric current raging through his body, his hands won’t settle, he can’t stop shifting around. It’s _excruciating_ to have all these mics in his face, all these flashes making his vision star.

 

“Where’s Tom?” Tommy asks Frank, his voice feeling cracked and crazy. Frank frowns at him, says something about giving him a cool-down, that he’s still riled up and Tom’s nearby and he’ll see him in a second, but he says nothing about where Tom is so Tommy filters him out, eyes skipping over the room, looking for that distinctive flop of dark hair. 

 

Then Tom’s there, sliding up close to him, a proud smile on his face. Something terrible inside him loosens, something that made him want to start hitting reporters out of the way until he found Tom. Tommy’s arms ache to hold him and before he knows it he’s herding Tom towards the door, and Tom’s bemused but letting him.

 

Frank yells something behind him, but Tommy doesn’t give a fuck, because Tom’s ridiculous hair is right under his nose and it smells deep and pure like oranges and spice and Tomsweat. He’s never hurt Tom, never even fucking wanted to.

 

As soon as they’re out of view of the reporters, Tommy wraps Tom up in his arms, buries his face in Tom’s neck and _breathes_ for the first time in a month.

 

Tom’s arms come up around him, gentle. “Hey, Tommy, what’s wrong?”

 

“Imma take you home,” Tommy mumbles it into Tom’s neck, his Philly accent thick and obnoxious.

 

Tom laughs a little, draws back. “Really?” Then Tom looks at his face, goes serious. Tommy knows he gets it. They haven’t had sex in a month, rather than the four times this week they normally manage. Tommy’s blood is up, and Mathelson hadn’t been enough of a challenge to do anything but provoke him.

 

“Alright, Tommy,” Tom says, and his light hands on Tommy’s shoulders are a balm. His absolute trust is even better.

 

The drive home is too long. Tommy’s knee jangling the whole way, and when Tom finally pulls up to his parking spot in the garage, Tommy’s out of the car in seconds.

 

Tom tries to follow, but apparently not fast enough. As soon as his feet touch the parking lot asphalt, Tommy picks him up over his shoulder.

 

“Tommy!”  He shrieks, pounding at Tommy’s shoulder, but Tommy just holds Tom’s legs firm across his chest with one arm. It might be a caveman hold, but that’s what Tommy feels like right now. He feels like he’s won Tom tonight rather than the belt, that Tom is his to take home and fuck tonight, that Tom belongs to him in the most elemental way possible.

 

The elevator up isn’t a problem beyond Tom’s embarrassment, as Tommy holds the door closed button up all the way to their floor, and plaintively ignores Tom’s requests to put him down. His soft hair is falling over his face, forming a little puff like a duck’s tail tuft over his head.

 

Tom doesn’t leave his shoulder until he’s bouncing on their bed, skinny tie askew over his shoulder.

  
“Jesus Christ, Tommy, I’m not your cavewife!” Tom grumbles, but he’s flushed and smiling, his hands coming up to grasp at Tommy.

 

Tommy falls on him like he’s ravenous, sucking the skin of Tom’s neck into his snaggle-toothed mouth to leave bright red hickeys, bruising Tom’s lips with his own, drawing small pink nipples into his mouth to run over the tips with his tongue. Tom’s giving as good as he’s got, dragging his hands and their neat trimmed nails all over Tommy’s skin, wrapping his legs and arms around Tommy’s body and dropping a hand between them to stroke Tommy’s cock.

 

“Hansen, get your hands off.” Tommy barks out, dropping his head down against Tom’s shoulder when he feels those clever fingers there. He almost comes, the touch of his hand so perfect after all of these weeks. Tom just smirks at him, strokes Tommy’s cock with the backs of his fingers. 

 

Tommy flips him over in revenge, forces Tom to use his hands to hold himself up on all fours instead of toying with him.

 

“God, I missed this,” Tom pants out, while Tommy reacquaints himself with his favorite little spot on the small of Tom’s back. The small spot makes Tom mewl and lose motor control of his arms, forces him to tip forward and offer his ass even higher. 

 

Tommy’s mouth is too full of Tom’s skin to agree, pressing little biting sucking kisses on Tom’s cheeks, his hands fumbling with the lube. He hasn’t touched the damn bottle in a month, and the cap was clearly designed by Satan. Tom laughs at him when he says so, shakes his full little ass in the air right in front of Tommy’s face.

 

It’s too much. Tommy dives right in, licking and sucking at the pink rim of Tom’s hole, his enthusiasm making everything wet and sloppy and perfect. He rims Tom like he’ll never stop. Tom freezes up at first like he always does, but soon he’s starting to sway, his legs turning to jelly and hips tipping over under the sensation.  Tommy doesn’t stop him when he tips over, simply grabbing for the lube and one of Tom’s ankles, straightening out Tom’s body with a tug to his foot and ripping off the cap to the lube with the teeth. It’ll never close again, but Tommy doesn’t even give half of the prerequisite fuck.

 

He tucks his fingers inside Tom, loves the way that Tom’s fingers clench in the sheets and his eyelids flicker, loves the way if he pets the walls of Tom’s hole Tom goes crazy trying to rock back onto his hand. It’s beautiful, and Tommy can barely wait for Tom to gasp out he’s ready before he slips inside.

 

 

 

It’s been too long. Tommy knew that. Tommy hated that. Tommy knew Tom was this wet and velvety slick inside, knew he’d been fucking stupid enough to deny himself that.

 

It’s different knowing what he’s missing than experiencing it again after a month.

 

Hot. Wet. Tight. Tom. Slick. Hot. Tom. Tom. Tom. _He’s inside Tom._

 

Tommy collapses under the feeling of it, the exquisite rightness of sliding home, Tom’s body just a titch tighter than usual but welcoming him in like he’s never been gone. Tom grunts under his weight, turns to look at him with one wide chocolate brown eye, and it’s over. Tommy comes just like that.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Tommy slurs, trying to pick himself up off of Tom, trying not to crush him beneath his weight. His arms and legs don’t want to work, shaking and resisting everything but collapsing back onto Tom.

 

Tom wriggles underneath him, his voice strained with arousal and Tommy’s weight, “Tommy, come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

 

That’s enough to get Tommy moving. He pulls out, manages to coordinate his limbs long enough to slip to Tom’s side and roll over. He tries to reach for Tom, to stroke his cock, maybe bring

him close enough to slip Tom’s cock into his mouth. “Sorry,” Tommy says, blissed out and embarrassed as he reaches with clumsy fingers for Tom’s cock. “Sorry.”

 

Tom gives a strained laugh at the blitzed expression on his face, moves himself closer until his own cock is bobbing thick and red between their stomachs. He wraps both their hands around himself, tugs himself off quick. Tommy’s head still feels fuzzy when Tom comes against their stomachs. Fascinated, Tommy touches it, drags his fingers through the cooling mess and draws Tom down until it’s trapped between their bodies.

 

 “Tommy, seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you come this hard,” Tom grumbles, trying to squirm away, but Tommy slings an arm around Tom, holding him in place. “This is gross and you owe me.”

 

Tommy knows it will be gross tomorrow, dried come and sweat and Tom’s hair sticking up at all directions and he’ll likely have to make it up to Tom tomorrow.   But right now, he thinks, tucking Tom as close as he’ll get to Tommy’s body and mind drowsy, right now it’s perfect.

 

He’s never doing celibacy training again.

 

Fuck Frank.

 


	2. Dolf Lundgren Does Home Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the true story of Dolf Lundgren's home invasion.

When Tom wakes up in the middle of the night, with the other side of the bed empty, at first he thinks it’s Tommy screwing around in the living room. He almost rolls over, and snuggles deeper into the sheets before he realizes—Tommy’s in Vegas. 

Tommy’s been in Vegas since last Thursday for a fight. Tom hadn’t been able to join due to a presentation at his work, and a game of Rachel’s he hadn’t wanted to miss. He’s not due in until early tomorrow. Tom looks over at Tommy’s hideously bright alarm clock from across the room. 

3:30. 

Tom groans. Apparently early in the morning means different to Tommy than to Tom. Tom flashes back to Friday morning, when Tommy’s 4:00 am alarm went off for nearly thirty minutes before an exhausted Tom managed to yank it out of the wall. 

“Tommy?” Tom calls out, before he pulls the cord on the light on his nightstand. 

He’s not prepared for what he hears in reply.

“Fuck. There’s someone here. I thought you said you tailed the guy who lives here to the airport?”

Tom’s instantly awake, as if cold water has been dunked down his spine. He fights the ridiculous impulse to yank the sheets over his head and hide like he’s five. 

For a moment Tom is split with indecision. Tommy and Tom don’t have a gun, a mutual decision stemming from Tommy’s undiscussed paranoia over hurting Tom, and Tom’s family’s anti-firearm background. Tom wouldn’t know what to do with one anyway. 

When the topic of home security has come up in the past, Tommy’s just shrugged it off with a grin and a dry “That’s what I’m for, babyface.” 

But Tommy’s not here right now. In fact he’s nearly 300 miles away right now, no doubt passed out on a hotel bed after his after-fight celebratory Italian breadsticks. Tom takes a deep breath, as he hears the tromp of shoes on his living room floor. He rolls out of bed, scrambling towards the bathroom. Maybe he can lock himself inside, hide in the bathtub from the intruders until they take what they want and leave. Hardly glorious, but Tom’s too scared to care. Tommy might have tried his hardest to beat some jujitsu into his skull, but Tom’s never wanted to give it a real life demonstration. 

The second Tom’s feet hit the floor he starts running. The bathroom is close, barely ten feet away, and he’s made that trek under worse conditions, whether completely blitzed from a night out with Mac or experimenting with Paul’s little pills. This is nothing. This should be nothing.

Then Tom’s left foot comes out, kicking the slipper at his bedside halfway across the room. It throws him off balance, toes tingling. The bedroom door crashes open, crashing against the drywall. Tom’s head swivels involuntarily at the noise, drawn irrevocably towards the man smashing into his bedroom rather than where he’s going. 

That’s when his foot makes contact with the slipper again and Tom goes down. 

He hits with a clanking of his teeth inside his mouth, his chin making contact with the hardwood. Suddenly his face is wet, hot sticky fluid on his chin and a metallic taste on his tongue. His face feels throbbing and numb at the same time. 

Then comes the barrel of a gun against the back of his skull. “Move and you’re dead.”

 

***

Tom’s never been so scared in his life. The man in the bedroom had tied his hands behind his back with a plastic zip tie, and dragged him into the living room. Now he’s sitting gagged on one of the hideous stools Tommy had convinced him were perfect for the kitchen counter as three men systematically strip his home of all valuables. He’s being quiet and still, hoping they forget he’s here as much as they can. He hasn’t seen their faces underneath the balaclavas they are wearing, and Tom knows breaking and entering is a lot lighter crime than breaking and entering and murdering.

It’s horrific to see them rifle through his and Tommy’s belongings. They have no patience for anything they don’t think is valuable, and Tom watches in horror as they split open the cushions on their couch, looking for any stowed belongings. 

It only gets worse when the obvious leader finds Tom’s picture wall. 

“Look at these faggots,” he says, tapping his knife against Tom’s wall of polaroids. Tom winces as the tip of the blade makes a white pockmark in between his and Tommy’s smiling faces. It’s one of his favorites because of just that, both of them smiling. Tommy doesn’t normally like photos, unless they’re of Tom, but for this he’d managed to get Tommy to actually look at the camera and he’s showing more than a tiny sliver of teeth in a natural smile. 

One of the other men laughs from where he’s preparing to take their TV. “That right?” He addresses Tom, mean and predatory. “You a faggot?”

Tom goes bright red, his heart pounding in his chest. He’s not embarrassed, but the atmosphere in the room has changed unmistakably. The men aren’t professional, for lack of a better word, like they were just minutes before. The second man has walked over from the TV to the wall of photos too. He strokes Tom’s face in one of the photos, and Tom’s stomach clenches in fear. The man calls over his shoulder to the last guy in Tom and Tommy’s bedroom. “Hey, come look at this! We broke into the pad of some dirty homos!” 

Sure enough, the guy comes out of the bedroom, and even as ten seconds ago Tom was desperate for him to get out of there, now he’s desperate for him to go back in.   
The second guy breaks from the wall and advances towards Tom. “I see your boyfriend’s a lot bigger than you. Do you like that?” Tom feels lightheaded, like any second he’ll pass out and fall right off this stool. He drops his gaze away from the guy, tries to avert his head. He doesn’t know what to say to make this better, only a thousand things to say to make this worse. He’s hyperventilating through his gag. It only makes it worse. It’s hard to breathe through the cloth to begin with, but now he’s trying to suck in air like his lungs are bellows, and it’s just not working. 

The man touches his face, just as he’d stroked Tom’s photo just seconds before. His fingers linger on the cloth of the gag. “You’re kinda pretty, for a guy.”

“Dude, what are you doing?!?” The bedroom guy says, and it doesn’t sound right, more genuine alarm than gay panic.

The guy’s hand is still resting on Tom’s lips, over the gag. He sounds annoyed. “A blowjob’s a blowjob. That’s not gay.” 

But the third guy is up in arms, sprinting across the room. He’s ripped one of Tom’s pictures off the wall, and this one’s campy, Tommy’s arms thrown up in a mock fight stance, the lift of his eyebrow saying ‘Come at me, asshole’ even as his lips are tweaked up at the sides. 

He steps in between Tom and his buddy, waving the photo like a flag. “Stop you fucking idiot! That’s Tommy Riordan’s boyfriend!”

“What?” The hand drops from Tom’s mouth, and the second guy snatches the photo. He looks from the photo to Tom to the punching bag in the corner. 

“Tommy Riordan. Tommy Fucking Riordan. Middleweight MMA champion! Sparta! The Titan Championships!”

Tom’s never been so grateful for smart phones in his life as when the first guy pulls his out. The next few seconds are filled with tiny tinny grunts from the speakerphones. 

Tom watches as the three men’s eyes get wider and wider, before a particularly loud ‘Cover up, dammit!’ comes out of the phone and muffled smack. All three men hiss though their teeth in unison. 

Then the video ends. Tom finds himself the recipient of three identical gazes. 

“Fuck.” The first guy says. 

“Fuck.” The second guy echoes. He whirls on the first. “Didn’t you notice it was Tommy Fucking Riordan you were tailing to the airport?!?”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that he lives in this apartment? He won like, a million dollar purse the other night. Why would he live in a place like this?!? It’s nice and all, but he must be fucking rich.”  
“Fuck. Fuck.” The last guy is frantically looking around the room, from the unplugged TV to the ripped open couch cushions. “Riordan’s going to fucking murder us! We fucked with his house! His boyfriend! Fuck!”

***

The next few moments are filled with a flurry of activity. All three guys are scrambling to put back everything they took, one hooking up the TV and the other frantically pushing the couch stuffing back into the slit remains of the couch. Eventually he realizes it’s a bad job, and he scurries over to Tom. He rips open his wallet, grabs the money inside and drops it on Tom’s lap. 

“Here. For the couch, ok?”

That’s new. Getting money from your burglar. 

It’s a mad scramble, but pretty soon the place looks almost normal. It’s still wrong in a way that makes Tom’s bare toes clench and his shoulders tense. 

“Ok, ok.” The biggest guy comes up to him, sidling down until he’s eyelevel. He’s talking slow and reasonable, as if to a startled animal, and Tom recognizes his voice as the guy who recognized Tommy. “We want you to know that we are very sorry. We didn’t know this was Tommy’s house, and we didn’t know that you were Tommy’s. We’ve put everything back. We don’t want any trouble.”

“I’m going to cut your hands free now, ok? Please don’t fight me. I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want to get hurt. Ok?” He seems to be waiting for something. Tom nods, sharp and scared.

“Ok.” He flicks a blade out, waits a moment so that Tom can see it, before he slowly edges behind Tom’s back. Tom holds as still as he can. 

It’s almost more panic inducing now that his wrists are free. He brings them in front of his body and fights the urge to rub his wrists. The man reaches up to pull Tom’s gag out of his mouth. “See?” He says. “It’s like nothing happened. You’re ok. We’re really sorry. We’re going to leave now. Tell Tommy to get a better lock.” He backs away, hands outstretched and placating.

After that, the three guys leave as soon as possible. Tom sits on the stool for long moments, before he staggers over to the wall of photos. Everything is pinned back in place, the only difference the little white pockmark on Tom’s favorite photograph. Tom grabs up the photo of Tommy in his cocky little fight stance. 

Oh God. Tom loses control of his legs, falling to the floor. Oh God. It was so close. That was so close. Tom can’t breathe. He scrambles over to where his phone is back on its charger for the second time that evening. He calls 911 with shaky fingers. 

“911, what’s the nature of your emergency?”

“Hello, yes, this is Tom Hansen. I need to report a burglary.” Tom bites on his thumb, listens to the operator ask her questions. He looks at the photo of Tommy in his hand. 

Suddenly a laugh chokes up in his chest. It’s so funny, so fucking funny. 

Tommy doesn’t even need to be home to be effective at home security.

***

Tom calls Tommy the second the police leave. It’s nearly 5:00 in the morning, now, which is 4:00 in Vegas. It’s early, but Tom knows that that means nothing to Tommy. 

Sure enough, Tommy picks up right away. “Hey babyface. A little early isn’t it? Miss me that bad already?”

“Oh God, you don’t even know,” Tom chokes out.


End file.
